


Isn't it a Tragedy?

by Amber_Angel



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Graphic Description, Holistic assassin, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's going to be sad in the beginning but it'll get better i promise, It's not too bad but it is a dead body so you decide, Updates every week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber_Angel/pseuds/Amber_Angel
Summary: The direction of the universe was a subtle thing, not something that could be easily explained or even described. There was no voice in her head, no inner cricket telling her what to do or where to go. The universe dealt in feelings, instincts, and useless choices. She was a leaf in the stream of creation, pulled along in the current. Wherever she went was where the universe meant for her to go. And whoever she killed… they were meant to die. She could disillusion herself with ideas of free will and choice, but in the end, her choices always aligned with what the universe wanted.*****Thinking about how Bart found out she was indestructible.This one's a doozy.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Know that I will throw in lots of comfort eventually, because my writing always has to have some sort of balance, and because I love Bart too much to let her suffer for long. 
> 
> IMPORTANT!  
> Please pay attention to the tags, they will update as the story progresses. Because this is Bart we're talking about, there's obviously going to be some gruesome stuff in here, but there will also be some dark subjects that not everyone may feel comfortable with. Stay safe! <3

_It's a tragedy_

_No one sees you poised_

_With such majesty_

_White wings spread_

_Like tapestry_

_But everyone watches_

_As you fall_

  
  
  
  
  
  


The direction of the universe was a subtle thing, not something that could be easily explained or even described. There was no voice in her head, no inner cricket telling her what to do or where to go. The universe dealt in feelings, instincts, and useless choices. She was a leaf in the stream of creation, pulled along in the current. Wherever she went was where the universe meant for her to go. And whoever she killed… they were meant to die. She could disillusion herself with ideas of free will and choice, but in the end, her choices always aligned with what the universe wanted.

She had free will in the same sense as ants in a farm. They could choose their tunnel, their path, where they settled, but was it really a choice if their choices were predetermined, limited? If they were set out before them and planned to lead, always, to the same destination? The universe's paths worked like a maze. There were a lot of paths, a lot of choices, but all of them always, inevitably, led to the center. And the center usually meant her killing someone. 

It didn't bother Bart, not really. She'd grown up with the universe, it had kept her like a mother, and as soon as it thought she was old enough, had ignored her like a father. It had been influencing her, shaping her since she was a baby, into a deadly tool for its own convenience. Bart was the universe’s weapon, and it never let her forget. 

Even when she was little the universe was there, though as a child its calling was much more prominent. Children possess a sense of wonder that adults cannot fathom, a way of viewing the world through starstruck eyes. Bart was no different, though in her case it was more that the stars’ eyes were struck with her. 

When she was five years old she had been placed in a foster home, given to a woman with a reputation for putting misfits in their place. Bart herself had never consciously acted out, she’d always tried to be good, but people always seemed to see something in her, something that they didn’t like. Maybe there had been something about her, even then, some kind of mark. The universe did have a way of leaving its touch behind, and Bart had learned a long time ago that her presence could make a crowd uneasy. They could usually sense something about her, either the universe’s influence, or the death that resulted from it. Because once she’d accepted the universe’s role for her, death had started clinging to her like a perfume. The more she killed, the stronger the aura, the more people tended to avoid her. Or maybe it was the blood. She always forgot about the blood, but apparently it scared people. She didn't see why, it was just like dirt, only redder and sticker and came from bodies instead of the ground. 

Whatever the reason, the people who ran the system had labelled her a bad egg. They'd hauled her into a car, tossed what few possessions she had in the trunk, and taken her to a small-looking house in a not-so-small-looking suburb. Bart had stared out the window at the houses that they passed by, gawking at the children that she saw out playing in their lawns. 

The car pulled up a short driveway and stopped. The house was on the short side, and it looked dainty, like the slightest wind could knock it on its side. Bart imagined what it would look like, the structure toppling over, outside intact, to reveal pipes and wall-less rooms on the inside. She was very good at imagining. It passed time well enough, and there was no shortage of time in the orphanage.

The man who'd driven her led her to the front door, a firm hand on her shoulder. Bart had to resist the urge to wriggle away from it. (They never liked when she tried to get out of their grips, but it felt so _confining.)_ He knocked on the door, and when it opened, guided Bart inside.

As soon as she’d stepped through the doorway, she’d known that she was there for a reason. There was a pull, a tugging sensation in her gut that made her want to jump on the lady who stood in front of her. She was a mammoth of a woman, a towering figure with eyes that cut into Bart’s soul. Her sour smile seemed like it could curdle milk, and the fingers that drummed impatiently on her forearm looked as if they had been made for hurting. There were people like that, Bart knew, who had been made to hurt. Some to take it, and some to deal it out. This woman exuded hurt, painted a mental image of harsh, violent words and sore body parts. 

Bart hadn’t been made to hurt, at least, she didn’t think so. She had been made to kill. And killing didn’t hurt, not the way she did it. They always ended up dead, sure, but they died quick. No messy screaming or begging or bleeding out. 

This woman was supposed to die. 

At five years old, she understood the idea, but not the execution. Conceptually, she could kill this woman. She could picture her dead, she could imagine her lying on the floor with her mouth hanging open (five years old, her idea of a dead body was more comical, and much less blood-covered). But she couldn’t see herself doing it, or think of _how_ it could be done. 

"Hello," the woman said, breaking Bart out of her head. She was smiling again, but not like she meant it. "You must be Bartine. My name is Ms. Miller, but you'll call me ma'am or madam, do you understand?" 

Bart nodded, but the man's hand clenched on her shoulder for a moment. Not good enough.

She tried again.

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Good." Those eyes… they were a muddy shade of blue, and looking for any kind of feeling within them felt like trudging through quicksand. "Why don't you go on up and find your room while I finalize these papers? It's the first door on the right." 

Bart nodded again and made for the stairs, accepting her small suitcase from the man as she passed. The woman spoke, and she paused, foot raised on the first step.

"Don't touch anything." Her voice sounded pleasant enough, but the tone felt like winter. 

"Yes, ma'am."

Bart's room turned out to be a small space that barely had enough room to fit a bed. She had to squeeze by the foot post to even get into the room. There were strips of rose-covered paper peeling off the walls, and the floor was wooden and creaked with every step. 

Bart laid her suitcase on the bed, stood back, and stared at her surroundings. It couldn't really even be called a room, she thought, more of a converted closet. That was alright, though. She didn't need much space. 

By the time she went back downstairs, the man who'd driven her there had left. Ms. Miller was standing at the bottom of the steps, studying Bart with cold, calculating eyes. Whatever small amount of warmth she might have been displaying for the driver's sake, it was gone now. 

Something whispered in the back of her mind, something primal and insistent, but Bart pushed it away as the woman spoke.

"If you're going to be living here, we're going to need to go over a few simple rules. First, you will not touch anything, or go anywhere without my permission or informing me first. The bathroom is the only exception. Second. You will learn my schedule and stick to it. Breakfast is at six, lunch at twelve, dinner at five, and bedtime is at eight. These are not flexible, and if you miss a meal, you will not eat. You will be given chores, and I expect you to do them without being asked. Understood?"

Bart nodded. 

"Which leads me to our third rule. As I said earlier, you will address me as ma'am or madam only, and I will not tolerate attitude or backtalk. Your responses will be _vocal._ I do not tolerate laziness. Rule breaking will result in punishment. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, ma'am." Her voice felt small and weak after Ms. Miller's demanding boom, but the woman seemed moderately satisfied. 

"Follow me. It's almost dinner time, and you're going to help me get it ready."

The days passed slowly. Bart wasn't enrolled in school- something about the paperwork getting lost- so Ms. Miller kept her busy. She cleaned the house, scrubbed the floors, and did the laundry. Every day, it was Bart's job to get eggs from the basement for breakfast. She didn't ask why the eggs were kept in the basement, and not in the refrigerator upstairs. Ms. Miller did not encourage questions, or disobedience. But Bart hated the basement. She did everything she could to beg out of going down, but her foster mother was cold as cement, and just as unmovable. 

There was just something about the basement that scared her. Every child, at some point or another, was afraid of the dark, and Bart was no exception. She would linger at the top of the stairs for as long as possible, staring down the narrow stairway at the wooden steps, covered by rough green carpet, flanked by walls peeling white paint. There was a single wobbly rail, and she always let her fingers trail down it, trying to take comfort in the cool, uneven surface when her foster mother finally forced her down the stairs. She kept her eyes wide the entire way down, staring intently into the black, and fumbled for the switch with one hand. The lights flickered on when she finally found it.

The floor at the bottom was icy concrete, and it sapped the warmth from her feet as she quickly rounded the stairs and made for the refrigerator. As soon as she had the eggs she ran back to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to ready her breath and catch her courage. There was already fear pulsing at the bottom of her ribcage, but she flicked the switch off and thundered up the stairs, dashing through the open door. She whirled around the second both feet touched solid wood, checking that none of the shadows had followed her up. Bart wasn't sure what she would do, exactly, if ever she _did_ see something creeping up the steps after her, but her ritual hadn't failed her yet. 

She was just about to toe the door closed, when something at the bottom of the stairs, some blobby black _thing_ jumped in the darkness. Bart jumped too, and one of the eggs fell out of her grasp, splatting on the floor. The blobby _thing_ was too much of a concern for Bart to notice, but when she heard her foster mother's booming voice demanding, "Look at what you've gone and done, you clumsy girl!" she knew that she had more imminent monsters to deal with. 

Ms. Miller was already scooping up the egg guts, and her muttering seemed harmless enough- "Waste of a perfectly good egg, I tell you, unreliable little-" but Bart could see the signs of trouble brewing on her face. 

_The calm before the storm._ She'd heard that expression somewhere, but never had she thought it more appropriate. Watching her foster mother clean was like witnessing still water under rising winds from a raft held together by stains. Danger was coming, and there was no way to avoid it. There _was_ a tiny part of her that said _no. No, there_ **_is_ ** _another way, you know there is. Do what you were meant to, do what you were_ **_put here for_ ** _,_ but Bart pushed it away. It was a scary idea, and a useless one. _She_ couldn't _kill_ this woman. She didn't think anything could. 

The lashing she got for breaking the egg was not the first, but possibly the most extreme punishment she received in that house. When the woman was done, Bart had deep cuts in three separate places. _A broken shell traded for broken skin_ , she thought, and went to find the bandaids. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets what they deserve.

A year passed, and the woman was still alive, though not for lack of urging on the part of the universe. Every time Bart was slapped, spanked, or paddled she felt the universe tugging at the edges of her mind, reintroducing that same familiar request. 

_ Can’t you just help me?  _ She sent a silent ask to the universe, knowing it heard her.  _ You could do it for me.  _

There was only a slight warming of the air in response, and a shrill call for her to come to dinner. 

She headed out of her room but lingered on the stairs, reluctant. Living with Ms. Miller wasn’t horrible, she supposed, but more often than not it was unpleasant. Her foster mother tended toward beration, and her patience was not so much a rope was it was a constantly frayed thread. It took very little for her to snap, and Bart never knew what was going to set her off. She had once been spanked for speaking out of turn, though she’d never been told that conversations were like board games. The spot had stung for a week, and sitting down had been agony. 

So she sat on the middle step and peeked into the kitchen through the railing, watching her foster mother move around the kitchen. She was holding a glass in her hand, and as Bart watched, she took a tiny container and let four drops of purple stuff fall into the cup, her smile sharp and scary as she swirled whatever was inside. She looked up sharply, suddenly, and Bart fell back against the far wall, holding her breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest all of a sudden, and she thought that she should be scared, but for some reason she wasn’t. She could feel the fear, pulsing at the edge of her chest, but it never took hold. There was only a slight hitch of her breath when she heard the woman call her name again, when she noticed the clear irritation in her voice. 

The woman huffed at her when she walked into the kitchen.

"It took you long enough," she said, and gestured to the table with the glass, the one that Bart had seen her do something to from the stairway. "Sit."

Bart obeyed, eyeing her warily. Whatever was in that glass, she was sure it was bad news. She watched her foster mother set it in front of her, and as the woman turned back to the counter to get the food, she felt a tug at her hand, like something was trying to pull her along. It was pulling her towards the glass. 

Hand shaking, she picked it up- chancing glances at the woman out of the corner of her eye- and as directed by the pull, she leaned across the table, placed her glass in front of her foster mother's plate, and took the other cup. Ms. Miller turned around just as Bart's hand was falling back to her lap. 

"Here." Her tone was clipped and curt as she ladled some kind of goop that looked distantly noodlish onto Bart's plate. She gestured to the cup with her ladle. "Drink that."

Bart did as she was told, and Ms. Miller rounded the table. Her lips curved into a devilish smile. 

"There's a good girl," she murmured, and fear stirred again in Bart's chest, though again it was muted by something stronger, something that curled against her ribs and spread a warmth there. 

"I'm going to tell you something, Bartine, and you're going to listen." The woman leaned forward, a glint in her eye that Bart didn't like. "I've had plenty of unruly children here, all sorts of freaks and rejects and scum. They give me the hard ones, you know, the ones that feel  _ off _ . They give them to me, and I fix them." She narrowed her eyes at Bart and picked up her cup, swirling it. "And sometimes, sometimes you can't tell, not just by looking. Sometimes it takes a while for the  _ offness _ to show up, to register. They'll turn up with the prettiest little angels, and I'll think to myself, 'maybe they got this one wrong.' But they're always right." 

Bart shivered. She didn't like the way her foster mother was looking at her, didn't like the mad shine in her eyes or the wide grin that was so out of place on her. The woman raised her glass to her lips and drank.

"The prettiest angels make the worst devils," the woman continued. "But I help them. I take them and I fix them. Every time, without fail. But you-!" She laughed, a shrill, almost hysterical noise. "How long have you been here? Nearly a year! And no progress. None!"

The cup slammed back to the table. Bart jumped in her seat.

"Some of them can pass for angels, but you,  _ you,  _ I knew the moment I saw you that the devil had his hands in you. There's something  _ wicked  _ in you, something  _ obscene _ . I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on you that you were  _ wrong _ . Can you feel it? Do you know?"

"I'm not wicked," Bart said softly. The warmth in her chest was slowly growing cold, though there was a weight settling around her shoulders like a protective arm. "I've never done anything bad."

"No, no you haven't,  _ not yet _ . And now? Now you'll never get the chance to." She pointed to Bart's cup. "Do you know what poison is, Bart? Because you just drank enough to kill a fully grown man. Can you feel your breathing getting heavier? Your lungs constricting?" 

Bart shook her head, tears now springing to her eyes as she tried to assess. In her fear she had forgotten about switching the glasses, forgotten that her foster mother had just drank from the cup meant for her, and she was afraid for herself. Ms. Miller was moving back to her now, gripping the table with clawed hands, even as her breath seemed to hitch slightly. 

“Can you feel yourself dying, Bart? Is the devil calling for you?” Her eyes were wild, insane, and Bart scrambled out of her chair to the floor as those hands reached for her, crawling away under the table as she heard the woman screech, a breathy, constricted sound. 

“Come back here you little brat!” she screamed, shoving the table aside. Bart curled into a tight ball, whimpering as one of the legs just barely missed her. There was a horrible, strained silence, and then a thud. 

Bart looked up to see her foster mother sprawled on the floor, her eyes open, her mouth gaping. There was a blue, mottled tint to her face, and her eyes were bulging slightly. She was dead. 

Bart burst into tears. 

They came to take her away three days later, after police found the woman’s body. The neighbors had reported it as “a disturbing smell.” They’d found her in her room, curled up in a corner, a blanket wrapped tightly around her. When they asked what happened, Bart told them, voice shaking. When they asked how she’d known to switch the cups, she answered that, too. But they didn’t understand. They said that she was hysterical. They said that she was in shock. They said that it had been the grace of God, that she’d listened to her instincts at the best possible moment. None of them understood that it hadn’t been any of those things. It had been the universe protecting her. Protecting her, and killing the woman it wanted dead. 

But maybe that was God. Maybe God had a penchant for vengeance, and just didn’t like to see children suffer. Was the universe an extension of God? Or perhaps there was no God. Maybe someone, somewhere, had mistaken the intervention of the universe, somewhere along the way, for the action of a divine power. 

Bart didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She knew that the universe had saved her. But as they herded her into the car that would drive her back to the home, she thought about Ms. Miller's bulging eyes, and she wondered if that was really a good thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bart is actually my favorite character, I swear. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make your writer happy!

**Author's Note:**

> People are so going to yell at me for this, so feel free to yell in the comments!


End file.
